


The Second Sunrise

by gaialux



Series: Don't Leave Without Saying Goodbye [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something in the Californian woods, and it's likely connected to a number of missing kids. Sam might be away at Stanford, but old habits die hard and he's started scouring the local newspapers for all the information he can find. Dean, never having been particularly good at staying away from his brother, goes to meet up with him and try to make him to come home -- whatever the hell home is to them. Instead he only manages to convince Sam to participate in one last hunt, but maybe it will give Dean enough time to convince Sammy to return for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Some gorey imagery and off-screen death of children.

Dean meets up with Dad in Kansas. It's the first time he's been back since he was a kid, and he manages to stay just about as far away from Lawrence as he can get. It's mostly coincidence they run into each other again, but Dean thinks they both know it was going to happen. An obvious hunt and Bobby giving Dean a passing message that he'd already been in contact with John. Dean goes after it because he knows there's only so long he could stay in California, and it turns out two months was his cap. He didn't catch so much as a glimpse of Sam during that time, though he knows he could have if he’d wanted to.  
  
Dean finds Dad in St. Francis, in the first motel listed in the Yellow Pages, and checks in under Jim Rockford. Just because. Then he spends hours in his motel room before mustering the strength to go and confront Dad.  
  
It goes nothing like he expected.  
  
When Dad opens the door all he says is, "Dean”, and it's not even with surprise or relief. It's the same 'Dean' he'd receive if Dad was calling him from the other room. Just 'Dean'. Just his name. Then Dad goes back to the table in his room and starts shuffling through papers.  
  
"We’ve definitely a poltergeist on our hands."  
  
Dean has no idea what to say.  


 

  
Nothing changes. They finish up the possession case in St. Francis and move onto a ghost problem in Colorado. Even being that one state closer to Sam makes Dean itch to try and returned to California, but he says nothing to Dad. And Dad definitely says nothing to Dean about Sam.  
  
If Dean didn't know any better, he'd think Dad’s forgotten about Sam. But that's not possible. You can't forget about your own kid — your own family. There isn't a second that passes where Dean isn't thinking about Sam. Not even when he's sleeping. He dreams about Sam almost every night. Sometimes it's about their last — and first, really — night together. Wakes up with the sheets drenched. Sometimes it's further back, when they were kids: Sam's first hunt, Sam's first day of school, and just them  _being_  kids. Hanging out at the park and even the freaking library because Sam was a nerd even when he was five. Dean spends a lot of time wondering how things changed so much. How they are where they are right now. How Sam went from being his little brother who he taught tie his shoes to be the person he jerks off to every morning in the shower.  
  
But mostly he just hunts. Because that's something he  _can_  do.  


 

  
Three people die in California a month after Dean leaves the state. For one heart stopping moment all he can think is  _Sam_. But none of the victims could have been Sam. They're all women, aged in their 40s, and living in San Francisco. The more he reads into it, the more he thinks their killers have to be far from human. He doesn't show Dad right away, and it takes him a long time to figure out why.  
  
Dean only shows the article to Dad after he’s found another hunt.  
  
"You should handle this one yourself," Dad says, just like Dean hoped he would. A potential hunt isn't anywhere near as high on the priority list as Dad's definite possession case only two states over.  
  
When he hands Dean the keys for the Impala — after not even letting him  _drive_  her since he came back, again no explanation, it just didn't happen — Dean knows there's something left unspoken. When Dad doesn’t even look up from whatever it is he’s reading over, Dean knows he’s been given permission to see Sam.  
  
So he does.  


 

  
Dean kills the ghost responsible for the deaths of those three women. An ex-lover, pissed and out for revenge. That MO sums more than half the ghosts the Winchesters have killed. Dean tries not to think about it as he heads toward Stanford with the smell of smoke still trailing behind.  
  
Finding Sam's dorm room is near impossible, but Dean does it because he has to. He’s gone for the cop routine because it makes everything easier and the young woman at reception is only too happy to help him along. He stands outside the wooden door for too long before he musters up the courage to knock.  
  
It's not Sam who answers, and Dean loses the ability to speak for a second. He wasn't expecting anyone else, though he should have; he's watched enough college films and hooked up with enough college girls to know that roommates tend to be part of the gig. Still comes as a bit of a shock, though.  
  
"Who are you?" he asks, looking the guy over.  
  
"I could ask you the same question." The guy says. He leans against the doorframe, blocking Dean’s view into the room.  
  
"Detective Paul Jones." Dean flashes him a shoddy ID whipped up at the Kinko’s twenty minutes down the road. It looks like crap, but he hopes college boy doesn't know what a real badge looks like. "I need to speak to Sam Winchester."  
  
The roommate, who’s wearing a stained white shirt and hair in all directions like he’s just woken up, hardly looks at the badge. "Why?"  
  
"That's between me and him." Dean keeps his gaze steady.  
  
The guy shrugs. "Okay. Well, he's got class. Won't be back 'til tonight."  
  
Figures. If Dean knows his brother — and he does, better than anyone — then Sam's taking as many classes as he possibly can and acing them all. Sam goes all out or he doesn't go at all. That’s what brought him here on a full-ride in the first place.  
  
“I’ll come by later," Dean says because he’s realised, when it all comes down to it, he wasn’t here for the hunt. He’s here to convince Sam to come back home. "Can you tell me when he’ll be back?"  
  
"Uh..." The guy glances back into his room and Dean can finally catch sight of the inside. Neat. Papers stacked in tight piles on the desk and clothes folded on the beds. It’s Sam-level neat.  
  
He's having a hard time breathing because that's  _Sam's_. One of those beds? Sam slept in it. And the faded plaid shirt at the end of the bed? Dean bought that for Sam during a week in Georgia when they hunted a pack of werewolves, and there’s a huge scar on Sam’s back when a werewolf sunk its claw in.  
  
The guy turns back to him. "About five?"  
  
"Thanks," Dean manages and turns away.  
  
"Hey!" The guy calls and Dean looks back to him. He runs a hand through his hair and his voice drops. Dean has to strain to hear him. "You wouldn't be here about the disappearances, would you?"  
  
Instincts kick in and tell him to lie as little as possible, to keep the story consistent. "Uh...yeah, actually. Those three women. What do you know about them?"  
  
"What? No — the kids. I just know what the papers say.” The guy hesitates then ushers Dean back toward the room. Dean goes. “But, uh, Sam's been keeping clippings. Figured maybe..."  
  
Dread pools in Dean’s stomach. "He's not a suspect," he says, too quickly.  
  
"Hey, I..." The guy holds up his hands. "I won't tell him anything."  
  
"He's  _not_  a suspect," Dean insists. "Just...trust me on that. I'll be back at five.”  


 

  
By four-thirty, Dean's pacing around outside the building. He spent the afternoon at the library looking through old local papers for disappearances, and Sam's roommate wasn't lying; Dean found four of them. All children from El Bosque, all disappeared near the woods in a three month period just after Dean left. What Dean doesn’t know is why Sam’s also looking into this.  
  
The moment his watch tells him it’s five, Dean makes his way to Sam’s room. He’s hands are sweating and he knows how stupid that is. This is _Sam_. The thought doesn’t comfort him like it once might have.  
  
Dean pushes those thoughts away and knocks. Sam answers, and the everything else in the world fades away.  
  
Sam looks no different than the morning when Dean said goodbye. Still the same too-long, floppy hair he’d never let Dean take scissors to, still rivalling a Sasquatch in the height department. And if Dean wants to, he can still picture the way Sam’s chest feels when it’s pressed against Dean’s, and the way the muscles and tendons in his arms move as he holds himself up. Nothing’s changed.  
  
" _Dean?_  What—?"  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says. Sam mouth hasn’t stopped gaping from the moment he opened the door. “Sam. Hey. Dude, it’s me.”  
  
"Dean...What — what are you doing here?" Sam's eyes roam over Dean's face and Dean's not sure what he's looking for.  
  
 _I came to see you_. Dean thinks that should be a fairly obvious conclusion, but his mind finally catches up to his mouth and he knows he was supposed to let Sam stay here. To start his own life. Dean’s just selfish. Instead he shrugs and says, “There’s a hunt around...and I just thought I’d say hey.”  
  
"Thought you'd say  _hey_?" Sam snaps and his eyes go hard, locking on Dean’s.  
  
"Sam..." Dean reaches out, but drops his arms back to his side when Sam doesn’t make any move toward him. “Come on. Aren’t you happy to see me?”  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything. Instead he turns away from Dean and and goes to sit on one of the two beds in the room. The one with the shirt shirt sitting folded on it and, on closer inspection, there's also a hoodie underneath the pillow. One that Dean recognises as his immediately.  
  
“You kept that?” he asks, like it isn’t already obvious.  
  
Sam looks up at him, but his eyes don’t register. Dean has to point to the hoodie and swallow hard as he does.  
  
“Oh.” Sam’s looks down at it and touches his fingers over the fabric before looking back at Dean. “You said I could. Why does it matter?”  
  
Yeah. Why does it matter? Why does it matter that Sam up and left without so much as a single phone call? Dean knows he can’t think like this, that it’s unfair to Sam when all he wanted to do was go to the college, but the thought doesn’t leave. It hasn’t left since Sam walked.  
  
"Sammy," Dean says, like he hasn't repeated his brother's name enough already since stepping foot in this room. "If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave. But…”  
  
Sam's shaking his head. "No. No, I don't— I just—  _Dean_?"  
  
"Yeah." Dean takes a couple of tentative steps toward the bed and then sits, knee just barely brushing Sam's. "It's me."  
  
Sam's head shaking turns into nodding and he gives Dean a tiny smile from behind his bangs. "Yeah."  
  
Dean feels himself grinning. The vice in his chest is finally starting to let up, just by sitting here, but he knows it’s not going to be enough anymore. He closes the small distance between them to kiss Sam. If Sam pulls back, that’s the end of it; Dean will let Sam live his life and quit interfering.  
  
Only that doesn’t need to happen. Sam slides his hands into Dean’s hair and parts his mouth for him. It takes his mind a few seconds to catch up with everything. To actually get with the program that, hey, this is  _Sam_ pressed against him. Then he has to pull away, just to make sure it’s happening.  
  
"This—" Sam bites down on his lip. "You want this, yeah?"  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
That's enough. Dean lets it be enough. He kisses Sam again. Sam runs his tongue along the seam of Dean’s lips, sending currents of electricity across his body.  
  
Until there's a knock at the door.  
  
Dean can feel Sam freeze against his mouth before he jolts back, ripping their bodies apart. Dean thinks it must be Sam’s roommate — who has more manners than Dean would think to give credit to a college kid — but when Sam quickly crosses the floor and opens the door it's definitely not the roommate standing there.  
  
"Oh. H—hey Becky."  
  
Dean sits up straighter on the bed, running a hand through his hair. He glances from Sam to Becky and back again. Sam’s not meeting his eyes and Dean can feel the tension moving between all of them. He gets the feeling that he should probably.  
  
"Thanks for your help," he tells Sam. He hopes he'll play along.  
  
A flicker of confusion crosses over Sam's face, but then Dean sees it click. "No problem."  
  
He nods at Becky and leaves the room. He doesn't know when he'll go back.  


 

  
Dean really does consider hitting the road. He can do his research about this case that may or may not even exist. He doesn’t  _need_ Sam to help. Not really. But instead he stayed in Palo Alto, and it took him two days to go right back to Stanford.  
  
He sees Sam, can pick him out easily. Seeing him is what pushes Dean to return. Sam isn’t as accommodating as Dean had hoped. When the door swings open this time, Sam looks at him and his brows curl.  
  
"What the hell did you do that for?" is the first thing he says.  
  
"What?" Dean's too stunned to move.  
  
He tracks his eyes over Sam’s face, trying to understand what he’s getting at. It could have something to do with the last time he was here, the fact they kissed, and if Dean’s somehow made some horrible, terrible mistake—  
  
"Come here then leave again,” Sam says instead.  
  
It takes Dean’s mind some time to catch up. Then what comes out is an explosion of anger. "You left  _me_ , Sam. Me and Dad."  
  
"You told me—" Sam looks away, takes in a deep breathe, and then meets eyes with Dean’s again. "I asked if you wanted me there. You said no. Then you come back, unannounced, and  _leave again_. You can't—"  
  
"I'm sorry." Dean takes a step forward, and then another when Sam doesn't react. At least he’s not trying to get away. It’s the closest Dean might get to a good sign, but it’s enough to keep him going. "I thought you'd want that. I shouldn't have come in the first place—"  
  
"No," Sam cuts him off. "No. I’m glad you’re here. Really."  
  
Those words are something Dean’s been waiting for. “Good.”  
  
Dean wants to clear the distance between them, to finally kiss Sam again, but something about the way his brother’s standing stops him. Not quite meeting his eye. Dean stays where he is and tries to figure out what to do.  
  
It’s Sam who breaks the silence. “What’s with the police ruse?”  
  
Dean shrugs. "Had to find a way to get in here. Considering the local disappearances, seemed like the logical choice."  
  
There's definitely a change in Sam's demeanour then. "Disappearances?"  
  
Dean has to fight very hard to not roll his eyes. "They're in every newspaper across the state, Sam. Don't bullshit me."  
  
There's no sound from Sam for a long while, but eventually he lets out a sigh and sinks down on his bed. He drops his head into his hands. Dean waits.  
  
"Your roommate said you were following the case," Dean says eventually. He's not sure what it's going to achieve, but it seems like something he should bring up. "What's all that about?"  
  
Sam looks up. "I'm not following—" But the look Dean gives him must be enough to convince Sam that truth is the best option. "Dunno. Seemed like something I should do. Could've sent the case to you or Bobby or whoever."  
  
"Or Dad," Dean says before he can stop himself. He's trying to make this a good visit, a chance to see Sam. But of course he can't. He just has to ruin it.  
  
"What are you really doing here?" Sam asks. His voice has taken on a sharp edge.  
  
Dean walks over to the desk and pulls out the chair, lowering himself onto it slowly. He keeps his eyes on Sam, tries to read something in them that isn't there.  
  
"Because I wanted to see you," Dean says. "Forget about the case.”  
  
Sam snorts, indignant. "What do you know about the disappearances?"  
  
Dean decides just to answer the question. There’s no point arguing. He has to take what he can get with Sam.  
  
"Not much," he says. "Your roommate—”  
  
“— Brady,” Sam says.  
  
“—Brady. He told me you were looking into them, so I just started a little light reading of my own."  
  
Meaning he picked up three papers between his visits with Sam. Skimmed them over in the car when he could concentrate for more than two seconds. He read maybe three paragraphs. Combined. That, with his minimal library research, tells him next to nothing.  
  
"All kids," Sam says. "That's the only connection."  
  
"We'll find more."  
  
Sam’s eyes lock on Dean’s. " _You_  will. I'm at school now. I told you, I’m not hunting.”  
  
Those words feel like a blow to Dean’s chest. He doesn't know why it comes as a surprise; he knew Sam didn't want to hunt from the moment he applied for college. But it still comes as a shock, no matter how many times he hears Sam say it.  
  
"Dean, I already tried explaining it to you."  
  
"Yeah, no — I got it the first time," Dean says. He considers leaving — he  _wants_ to leave — but something holds him grounded here.  
  
"You wanna see my research?" Sam asks softly.  
  
"Sure." Dean keeps his voice stoic.  
  
The bed dips as Sam gets off and lets out a dramatic sigh. Dean watches from the corner of his eye as Sam walks to his closet and pulls out four pairs of jeans before finding a manila folder and making his way back to Dean. He kneels on the floor and looks up, like Dean is a  _child_  or something.  
  
Dean snatches the folder from Sam's hands and still won't look Sam in the eye. Maybe he  _is_  acting like a child. He doesn't care.  
  
The file Sam's kept is overtly neat. Every article cut into a square or rectangle, pasted with the date and bullet points of other information Sam's gathered: ages of the missing kids, their schools, their family situations, last known whereabouts. There's seven of them, all under the age of 12, all having disappeared a week apart. The last article is dated five days ago. The alleged abduction of seven-year-old Lucy Orson.  
  
Dean shuts the folder and finally looks at his brother. "When were you planning to share this?"  
  
"I don't know," Sam says evenly, and that's the part Dean hates. How Sam can so easily maintain his composure, play passive-aggressive.  
  
"Kids are disappearing, Sam. You didn't think that was important to share with the class?"  
  
Dean doesn't even know why he's angry. Sam likes to do his research and there have been hunts in the past where there have been a lot more vics before Sam or Dad let them go in all guns blazing. But  _kids_. The victims are rarely kids.  
  
"Well," Sam says. "I have now."  
  
Dean has to close his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He comes to California to see Sam and gets  _this_. A case not even connected to the three dead women. He's starting to think Buffy might just be real, and that Sunnydale was just the pseudonym of Stanford.  
  
Dean re-opens his eyes. "Gonna have to check it out."  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. His voice has lost the edge and now sounds small. Dean's actually not sure which he dislikes more.  
  
"You should come with me." Dean's voice sounds just as pathetic, and he knows Sam's response even before he says the words.  
  
Sam moves from his kneeling position and begins to pace the floor of his tiny dorm room. Still bigger than many of the motel rooms they'd stayed at in the past. "I can't."  
  
"Yeah," Dean mutters. He watches Sam walk around the room until his eyes catch sight of a calendar. He can't believe it's November already. "Sammy, at least tell me what you're doing for Thanksgiving."  
  
Sam stops pacing. He won't meet Dean's eye. "A couple of friends invited me to go home with them..."  
  
"Right." Dean clears his throat and looks away from his brother. They'd hardly ever celebrated Thanksgiving in the past, but that didn't change the fact it’s supposed to be a  _family_  event.  
  
"I didn't expect you to come back," Sam says and now Dean can hear the rise in his voice, the struggle to make Dean  _get_   _it_.  
  
"Looks like you've made a whole new family for yourself."  
  
"Dean..."  
  
Dean glares at him. He thinks that he does understand, but he's not willing to admit it to Sam. There's kids disappearing and Dean has to find out why. To see if there's some kind of supernatural creature behind it all. If Sam doesn't want to be a part of that. Well. Dean runs a hand over his face.  
  
"We don't have to spend it with Dad," Dean says. "If that's what you're worried about."  
  
There's silence from Sam, and he goes back to pacing. Dean's almost ready to say something, to  _convince_  Sam to just stay with him, even just for the weekend. They wouldn't even have to leave Stanford; Dean won't make Sam hunt if he doesn't want to, not again. Dean's about to say something — maybe even beg, he's not sure — when Sam stops pacing again and looks at Dean.  
  
"It wouldn't matter," Sam says. "He calls? You pick up. This case? I know you'll tell him and he'll make you investigate. Oh, and let's not forget the little fact that he told me to  _stay gone_."  
  
"That's not true," Dean says. "And for the record, I was willing to come with you.”  
  
“I want to believe that.” Sam’s voice drops. "I mean, I  _do_. It's just...maybe it'd be better if you stay on Dad's good side."  
  
Dean licks over his lips. "This your way of asking me to fuck off?"  
  
"No, Dean, I—"  
  
Dean shakes his head and lets out a scoff of laughter. His shirt feels too tight around his throat, choking him. "Message received loud and clear. You know my cell. Call when you  _actually_  believe I want to be here."  
  
With that, he leaves Sam's room again. Maybe he won’t be able to get his brother back.  


 

  
Dean hasn't spoken to Dad in a week. Not that Dad's made any effort: there's no missed phone calls, nothing moved in his motel room or the impala to tell him that Dad's been there. Or that he cares.  
  
It's Sam who makes the effort. Two days before Thanksgiving.  
  
"Dean..." his voice sounds so far away that it takes Dean a moment for his mind to click that it's Sam. Using a new cell — his number isn't in caller ID.  
  
"Hey, Sam," Dean says. He's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling and his voice comes out flat. Dead.  
  
There’s a long moment where Dean thinks he should have taken a different approach, and he’s about to start again when Sam clears his throat. "You see the other disappearance?”  
  
"Yeah,” Dean says. He immediately knows who’s Sam talking about. Young girl, aged seven. Disappeared around the same area as all the others. Either there's a pedophile serial killer on the loose, or there’s definitely a monster hanging around California.  
  
"Dean..." he trails off again, but this time Dean makes himself wait. He thinks there might be something more his brother wants to say. Only he's not entirely sure he wants to hear it. "Dean, I'll help you find what's taking these kids. But just us, okay? No Dad."  
  
Dean isn't even sure he heard many of Sam's words. Just that he was going to hunt again, to be with Dean again.  _No Dad_. "Of course,” he says.  
  
"Good." He can hear the relief flowing from Sam now, and it comes from Dean as well. A huge, heavy weight in his stomach lifted because Sam's speaking to him again. "Come get me? We'll...I dunno. Research I guess?" He hears Sam give a choked off laugh, caught in his chest and not at all amused.  
  
"It's okay," Dean says. He's already looking for his keys and attempting to shove on his jacket with the cell cradled against his ear. "Be there in ten."  


 

  
He's there in five. This time he doesn't check through the reception because he's already found a shortcut to Sam's room. Goes straight there, knocks on the door once, and Sam swings it open. No time to waste, because that's not how they do things. Especially when Sam keeps tugging at the backpack strung over his shoulder and half-avoiding Dean's gaze. He's nervous or scared or something, and Dean's not entirely sure why. He'd never let anything happen to his brother.  
  
It's only once they're settled in the car that Sam starts to relax a little, and Dean begins to consider that maybe Sam was expecting Dad to be here. As if Dean would betray him like that. But he doesn't say anything, just turns the key and lets his car roar to life. He’s pulled her out into the street before Sam decides to speak.  
  
"I think I know what we're dealing with," he says.  
  
Dean glances over at him. "Yeah?" He should have his own theories, but those few hours he spent in the motel between seeing Sam were filled with sleeping. He's just so tired all the time, and it’s not actually an all that great change to never being able to fall asleep.  
  
"Uh, yeah." A slight pause. "Slenderman."  
  
Dean can picture Dad’s journal in his mind, mentally scour through the pages in record time. Nothing about  _slender_ stands out to him. “What the hell is that?”  
  
From the corner of his eye, Dean watches his brother dig through his backpack and pull out three pieces of slightly distressed paper. A Sam who isn’t neat with his research. That bothers Dean more than it should.  
  
"It's not well-known," Sam says. "Details were hard to find. But it matches our MO pretty well. See, this...spirit or something—"  
  
"Wait, you don't know what it is?" Dean gives more attention to Sam now, the road momentarily forgotten.  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Finding information on this thing is hard. Just a lot of rumours and bad photos." He rifles through the papers in his hand and pulls out one, holding it up to Dean. "Like these."  
  
The paper Sam's holding up has three photos on it. All black and white and completely shadowed over. Dean has to strain to make anything out while keeping one eye on the mostly desolate road. "Look like bad photocopies to me," he says finally.  
  
"Here," Sam says. Dean looks back over, and this time Sam's pointing at something. "Look real close."  
  
Dean tries, and he thinks now he can see something in the crap photocopy. A man, maybe. But the figure’s arms are long and his body stretches up higher than the trees.  
  
"And then..." Sam takes the paper away and replaces it with another. This time one of color, but grainy as hell and between watching the road, it takes Dean quite a while to figure out what exactly he's looking at. Then he realises it's the same guy, only this time he's in what’s visibly park. With kids. "Exactly what you think it is."  


 

  
They end up at the local library.  
  
“It could be changeling,” Sam suggests early on, turning a thick book in Dean’s direction.  
  
Dean knows it can’t be them. They take babies, toddlers at the oldest. And, more importantly, replace them. Nobody’s seen these kids since their disappearances.  
  
“It’s not changelings, Sam,” Dean says.  
  
Sam shrugs and keeps reading.  
  
Dean moves on to the internet, because that seems the simplest progression. He has no idea what he's looking for, so just goes with the limited things he does know. 'Children', 'monster', 'abduction'. That sees him scrolling through pages upon pages of real-life child killers. He takes a different approach, tries 'monsters taking children'. It's with that search he finds the simplest explanation that could possibly be correct.  
  
Boogeyman.  
  
The first thing he does after reading that is scoff. The Boogeyman doesn't exist. He's up there with Bigfoot, Nessie, and angels. Only, the more Dean reads, the more a little voice in the back of his head says he might be onto something.  
  
"Found anything?" Sam comes up behind him and pulls out a rolling chair that skitters across the linoleum and earns them a disapproving look from an old lady reading nearby.  
  
"You're gonna laugh." Dean shakes his head.  
  
"What?" Sam asks. He tries to push Dean out of the way but Dean digs his feet into the floor.  
  
"Boogeyman," he says slowly and watches Sam's face for a reaction.  
  
Instead of laughing, Sam looks mildly intrigued. "Really? Huh."  
  
Dean lets him push in next to the computer and peer at the screen. His eyes fly over the monitor and he's scrolling down before Dean even finishes re-reading.  
  
"You might be onto something," Sam murmurs.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Sam looks at him, smiles. "Yeah, maybe."  
  
He clicks back on the browser and finds another link. Similar information to the first website, at least based on the snippets of paragraphs Dean glimpses before Sam scrolls down.  
  
"Say how to kill them?" he asks eventually, once he gives up trying to read as fast as his brother.  
  
Sam shakes his head. "And we've got a major issue, anyway."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Basic lore, Dean. Boogeymen hide in kid's rooms. In closets or under beds. This thing's taking them from outside. But..." Sam pauses, and goes into his backpack. Dean wonders how much research he’s already done as Sam pulls out a piece of paper and begins to unfold it. A map with hand-drawn lines ending at the woods where the kids were last seen. "All seven kids are from around here, and there's a playground nearby. Maybe he took them from there."  
  
"Doesn't support the Boogeyman theory," Dean says.  
  
"No," Sam says. "It doesn't. But maybe it'll put us in the right direction."  
  
Dean clicks off the webpages and leans back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "What about the slender guy you were talking about? Could be some kind of derivative from the legend?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Yeah, could be. Good a guess as any."  
  
Dean can't stifle his yawn as he glances outside. The sun is setting, casting red and purple into the huge bay windows of the library. "We should get something to eat. Come back tomorrow morning and find out why Boogeyman's eating these kids."  
  
Sam nods, stiffly and, after a moment’s hesitation, Dean reaches out a hand and presses into his shoulder. "Or not. I think the motel I'm at has WiFi, and I saw that laptop you've got in your bag."  
  
"Replacement car," Sam says. The confusion in Dean's face must show, and Sam continues. "You told me to buy a car with the money you gave me. I got a laptop instead."  
  
"Oh." Dean swallows.  
  
"Yeah." Sam hauls himself to his feet and slings the backpack over his shoulder. "C'mon, I'm starving."  


 

  
A little diner not far from the library is where they stop to eat. Dean orders a bacon cheeseburger with a side of chilli fries and Sam goes for his signature salad. It could be like any other hunt, one where Sam isn't only here for the long weekend and instead they're hunting without Dad, the type of hunts Sam enjoy on occasion — where the two of them killed a werewolf and burned the bones of numerous ghosts. All themselves.  
  
"We gotta see the woods," Sam says.  
  
Dean stops chewing mid-fry. "Hmm?"  
  
"There's only so far research will take us, and those kids are missing..." Sam trails off and looks out the window.  
  
"We will," Dean says. He reaches out a hand and brushes his knuckles across Sam's. Sam looks away from the window, startled, but then gives a small smiles. "We're gonna figure this out."

 

 

Out of habit, Dean always books a room with two queens. Sam stalls when Dean opens the door, until Dean pulls the backpack from around his brother's shoulder and tosses it onto the same bed as his duffle and guns.  
  
"Storage," he says. "The other one's for sleep."  
  
That seems to be enough for Sam, but he still goes and awkwardly sits at one of the chairs next to the tiny kitchenette. Dean still feels on edge. End of the day, they're supposed to be brothers, tend to be best friends, and it's never been awkward between them before this. He doesn't want it to be now.  
  
"Hey," he says, and he’s emitting just as much awkward tension into the air. "Just like old times, huh? We'll get this thing killed then be back at the motel.”  
  
That same pressed smile Sam's been using lately comes to his face again. "Sounds good."  
  
Dean sighs and sits at the end of one of the beds. "You gotta talk to me."  
  
"What do you wanna know? All the research is in my bag—"  
  
Dean shakes his head and Sam quits speaking. "Not about that." He clears his throat and gestures between the two of them. Yeah, definitely awkward. "About us."  
  
"What happened to no chick-flick moments?"  
  
"Kissing your brother tends to change your view on a lot of things."  
  
"Right."  
  
Dean runs a hand over his face. He wants to know what Sam's thinking, but if he asks there’s every chance Sam won’t tell the truth. But he has to try, has to figure it out somehow. "Are you still good...with everything?"  
  
Sam nods.  
  
"Words, Sammy." Because Dean needs to hear it, needs it to repeat in his mind and replace Sam's words of leaving, of staying away.  
  
"I'm good with everything."  
  
Dean looks at Sam. Really tries to look at him. But he can't read anything in Sam's eyes. They just gaze back at him evenly. They’ve only been apart a couple of weeks, but Dean feels like they’ve lost everything. He won’t accept that. He  _can’t_ accept that.  
  
Dean gets up from the bed and walks over, cupping Sam’s jaw and leaning down to kiss him. Sam kisses back, and Dean gets that he's good with this. They're good.  
  
"Bed," Dean says, because he just has to test the waters. Has to keep pushing and pushing until Sam up and leaves. Again.  
  
But Sam surprises him by getting to his feet and following Dean to the bed, dropping to it and lying back when Dean pushes against his shoulder.  
  
"See," Sam murmurs just below his ear. "Good."  
  
And he is right. Dean tugs at Sam's shirt until it's off and over his head before urging him to lie back again. This time he's not going to run away.  
  
Dean kisses Sam and just keeps kissing him. Settling with his legs on either side of Sam's thighs, comfortable, so he doesn't have to move anything except his mouth and hands. Because this is what he’s wanted for longer than should be allowed, longer than he can even remember. Just  _Sam_ , always there. Never leaving his mind. Doesn’t matter that they’ve done it once before. He needs to do it again  _and again and again_.  
  
He keeps touching until he feels the line of Sam's cock against his leg. He grins. "Really good, huh?"  
  
The noise Sam makes might be an annoyed groan. Or maybe not, when Dean rubs against him. Dean does it again, and the sound from Sam's throat is definitely one of pleasure. That's enough to spur Dean on and he sits up, shuffles further along the bed so he can reach and pop the button of Sam's jeans. Sam's watching him the whole while, and bites down on his lip when Dean slowly drags down the zipper. Then its just a matter of Dean getting his hand down his brother's underwear and gliding his fingers over Sam's cock.  
  
Sam practically hisses at the touch and his hips come up off the bed. Dean keeps doing it, pulls Sam's cock free of the fabric and strokes it slowly, eyes moving from Sam's face and back down again. He can't decide which view he likes better. At least until an idea sparks in his mind and all he can think is  _what the hell? might as well go for it_.  
  
But he does decide to ask first. "You want a blowjob?"  
  
Sam does a whole fish-outta-water impersonation and Dean starts mentally kicking himself for taking this too far, too fast. Especially when, in all honesty, he's perfectly content with the kissing and handjobs.  
  
"You wanna suck my cock?" Apparently Sam lacks comprehension skills when he has a hard-on.  
  
“That's the general idea behind it, yeah," Dean says. Definitely too early. He's about to forget the whole idea and go back to the handjob when Sam says a very quiet, "You can."  
  
Dean's not sure he hears it, but he looks back up at his brother and Sam gives an almost imperceptible nod. Dean thinks he give one in return, but he's not really paying attention to himself right now. He leans down and kisses just below Sam's belly button, follows with another kiss right underneath. When Sam's hand lowers to run through his hair, Dean looks back up. Sam's smiling, but Dean can see that it's cautious and falters at the corners of his lips.  
  
"It's okay," Dean says. He's not even sure what he's saying is okay, but a lot about this entire situation seems as though it should be wrong. Only it's not. It's just the two of them and he's never seen anything wrong with that.  
  
Kissing the small distance between Sam's stomach and cock feels right, and when he closes his mouth over the head and Sam lets out a caught, "Dean", there's nothing in the world Dean wants more. He hasn't sucked a cock before but he thinks the mechanics should be pretty basic. It seems to work when it takes Sam hardly any time at all to fall apart under him. Dean pulls back and jerks Sam through it until Sam pushes his hand away. He moves back up the bed and they're face to face when Sam rolls onto his side so they’re facing each other.  
  
Sam’s smiling. "Want me to return the favour?"  


 

  
Dean wakes up the next morning in a tangle of Sam. It's the first morning they've actually woken up together, and Dean tries to ignore how heavy Sam's limbs are in favour of focusing on the fact it's  _Sam_  and he's still here. Not that it takes Sam very long to wake up. He yawns, half rolls over, and then his eyes fly open.  
  
"Hey," Dean says, voice raspy with sleep.  
  
"Morning," Sam says very quietly. Dean swears he sees his brother pinch himself, and Sam must pick up on it. "I...uh. Recurring dream?"  
  
Dean laughs and it feels so foreign. "Real."  
  
A soft hum from Sam before it stops sharply and he says, "So I'm guessing the hunt's still real? The missing kids."  
  
Dean slumps back on his pillow. "Unfortunately."  
  
Sam sighs. "Guess you can't win ‘em all. We should get back to the library, try and figure out exactly what we're dealing with."  
  
Dean closes his eyes and tries to lose his himself in the heat of the bed and Sam's leg that's still entwined between both of his. He just wants to stay here and keep sleeping, or maybe try a repeat performance of last night because that was freaking awesome.  
  
"Dean." Sam nudges his skin.  
  
"Mmph," Dean so eloquently responds.  
  
"C'mon. I know a diner with a killer steak breakfast."  
  
That gets Dean up. He pulls on the clothes he wore yesterday and Sam does the same.  
  
"I'm thinking we should interview some people," Dean says once they're on the freeway and Sam's shared his directions for an apparently awesome breakfast.  
  
"Like who?" Sam asks. "There's no witnesses according to the police."  
  
"That we  _know of_ ," Dean corrects. "And even if there aren't, these kids have families. Maybe they noticed something strange in the days leading up the little Johnny's disappearance."  
  
Sam shrugs. "Maybe."  
  
The diner's close enough that they're taking their seats before traffic even starts to be anywhere near congested. They’re early enough for the early bird special for breakfast, though Sam doesn't seem to understand the idea of specials, and orders a short stack with no extra butter.  
  
"You know, real men eat steak," Dean says.  
  
Sam doesn't even appear to hear him. He has that manila folder out again and is tracing his finger along an article. He's still doing that when their food arrives and Dean has to kick him to make him stab a fork into one of the pancakes. He doesn't start eating.  
  
“This steak is  _awesome_ ,” Dean says through a mouthful.  
  
"One of the families is here in Palo Alto," Sam says instead.  
  
Dean swallows down some of one of the best steak he's had in a long time. "What was the kid doing in El Bosque?"  
  
"Apparently visiting her grandparents during summer vacation."  
  
"First disappearance?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Dean downs the remainder of his coffee before Sam's even taken a bite of his breakfast. "So that's seven confirmed disappearances in three to four months?"  
  
"Three," Sam says. "The girl — Elizabeth James — was reported missing August 23rd."  
  
"I say we pay the parents and grandparents a visit," Dean says.  
  
Sam goes to stand, but Dean doesn't move. "People aren't going to interview themselves, Dean."  
  
"Eat your breakfast first."  
  
Sam sighs, sits back down, and starts cutting into his pancakes.  


 

  
“Dude,” Sam says as they make their way up the path to the little white house in front of them. The garden is overflowing in flowers that cause Dean to wrinkle his nose. “Try a bit of empathy here, okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waves him off and picks up the pace until he can reach out and push the doorbell.  
  
“I’m serious—”  
  
"Dean Rockford and Sam Matlock, FBI." Dean can practically  _hear_  Sam grimace at the introduction, even though it worked perfectly fine on the parents. Too bad they didn't offer any leads. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about Lizzie's disappearance."  
  
The old woman — Marcia, Elizabeth's grandmother — leads them into a small living room wordlessly. "Please, sit," is the only thing she says before sitting rigidly on an armchair in the corner.  
  
Sam always ends up doing most of the talking because he has something he calls tenacity whereas Dean is usually just a dick who wants answers. Dean doesn't know how he's going with this gig once Sam's gone again. He reminds himself not to think about that.  
  
"We've spoken to the local police but are just trying to piece together what's missing," Sam says to Marcia. "Your daughter was staying with you for two weeks during September of this year, correct?"  
  
Marcia nods. "Yes."  
  
"Did you notice anything weird when she was with you?" Dean asks. Sam's glares at Dean. What? It was an innocent question. Important, too.  
  
"What my partner means is," Sam says with another definite look in Dean's direction. "We're trying to look into every possibility. So if something stood out to you, no matter how strange..."  
  
"There...there was something," Marcia says tentatively. "I didn't see it myself, and honestly didn't believe Lizzie when she told me."  
  
While Sam nods along, Dean thinks about how people should listen to allegations about strange activity a hell of a lot more often. Would save everyone a lot of death and save him and Sam a whole lot of time.  
  
"She went to the playground — the one on the next block," Marcia continues. "And, after a few days, kept saying there was always a tall man there. I...I thought she just meant someone's father...I didn't— Do you think this man could have taken her?"  
  
 _Yup_. And Dean's done with being second in command. "Did she give you any more details about what he looked like? Like how tall is ‘tall’?"  
  
"Um." Marcia pauses.  
  
"Maybe your husband could—"  
  
"No." She shakes her head. "He—he couldn't. No, she just said he was very tall, taller than the trees. And that he was always in the shadows.”  
  
Maybe it is a Bigfoot. That would be an interesting find.  
  
"Anything else?" Dean presses.  
  
She shakes her head. Maybe Dean attempt this whole 'empathy' thing Sam's always pushing.  
  
"Thank you for your help," Sam says. "If you think of anything else, I'll give you my card."  
  
They're hastily put together cards that look more like generic online print-offs, but Marcia takes it without a second glance just as Elizabeth's parents did.  
  
"Please find her," Marcia says before they walk out the door.  
  
Sam gives her promise that they will while Dean knows the chances are slim. The idea of Slenderman or the Boogeyman or whatever is becoming more likely, and Dean doesn't remember anything in his half-hearted research that points to them being kind and considerate to the children they take.  
  
“Where to now?" Sam asks as they get back into the car.  
  
"What we need to do is go searching for the son of a bitch,” Dean says. “Nature hike."  
  
Sam scoffs. "We don't even know exactly what this thing is, let alone how to kill it. And even when we do find out, we have no idea where to find it beside the hundred square miles of El Bosque Forest."  
  
"Then we get a map." Dean shrugs. "Think about what we  _do_  know. That we're after some freakishly tall...something and that Boogeyman traditionally hides under beds or in closets. How about caves? Or — El Bosque was part of the gold rush, right? — an abandoned mineshaft."  
  
"We don't know  _anything_.” Sam sounds annoyed. “Whatever this is could just as likely live in a tree."  
  
"Then what do you propose we do, huh?"  
  
No matter what Sam offers, Dean's still going toward the library with the very definite idea to find a map and scout out hiding areas for whatever this thing is.  
  
"Talk to more people, or at least try to find more witness testimonies. People took those photos — we should ask them about it."  
  
"And learn what? These kids might be  _dead_ , Sam — or dead by the time we get to them. No, we're going to find a map, locate the area, and take a long overdue camping trip."  
  
Sam slumps back in his seat. "We haven't be camping in years."  
  
“Good to get back to nature then, little brother.”  


 

  
Years seem almost like an understatement. Dad had given them survival training for all environments, so of course camping was on the agenda, but according to him there weren't all that many monsters hiding out in the trees, so there was no need for extensive preparation. Wendigos were about as far as it went. They were better off leading how to shoot and quickly reload guns.  
  
Still, Dean had retained some knowledge and they had a tent crammed at the back of the trunk. Combine that with whatever food looked long-lasting in the grocery store and Dean thinks this could work.  
  
Sam's a little less optimistic.  
  
"We have no idea where we're going," he says as they wander down the store aisles.  
  
Dean throws a bag of instant oats into the basket. Breakfast being the most important meal of the day and all. "Well, this aisle has cereal, and the next one has soda and candy—"  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
Dean grins but Sam doesn't return it. "Aw, come on Sammy. There's three caves on that map and all within a couple of miles of each other. We trek there, check it out, and if that comes up clean we head over to the mineshaft. Should take us three or four days, tops." He doesn't add that Sam will be back at Stanford in plenty of time to turn back into a geek and become some hotshot lawyer.  
  
"That's not a solid plan."  
  
"Maybe not, but we're doing it."  
  
Sam walks ahead and Dean follows at a slower pace. Deep down, pissed or not, Dean knows his brother will go with him. That's just something Sam does. Whether or not they'll fight is a different story, but Dean's going bit his tongue and keep the bitching to a minimum. If this is the last hunt they have together, it's going to be good. Dean will make it good.  
  
Turning into the next aisle he can see Sam has stopped. "I actually have a theory about how to waste this thing," Dean says as he tosses a bag of peanut M&Ms into the basket.  
  
"Let's hear it." Sam always comes through.  
  
"Was thinking about...Dad's...journal." Dean tries to ignore the pause in Sam's words. "The closest creature I could think of was a Wendigo. Fire."  
  
Cannibalistic monster usually found in the woods. Possible. "You think it's a Wendigo?"  
  
"No. I think it's  _similar_ , Dean. Since you're so gung ho about running in all guns blazing I thought we should at least have some idea about the _type_  of gun to use."  
  
"Or a take a stab in the dark." Dean collects a handful of chocolate bars. "You got a better idea?"  
  
"No," he admits and turns toward the cash registers. "Fire it is."  
  
"And we're going to the mineshaft first."  
  
Best to go with Sam on that, just to get him to shut up.  


 

  
The Impala will only take them so far into the forest and Dean's not about to leave her exposed and vulnerable for the next three days. Sam complains of course, but still takes the actual hiking pack they'd purchased and starts walking alongside Dean who carries weapons in a duffel. He's annoyed the duffel's heavier.  
  
"Sun sets about six," Sam says. "Rises about seven."  
  
"And?" Dean asks, adding a dramatic roll of his hands.  
  
" _And_  we're not moving in the dark. If this thing is the Boogeyman, then it works at night. Those kids all went missing at the end of the day."  
  
"No," Dean says. "Their parents reported them  _missing_  at the end of the day."  
  
While waiting for Sam to go pick up 'appropriate' supplies for a camping trip, Dean had taken to some more light reading. By now he could recite the original newspaper articles by heart.  
  
"The Walsh's said their daughter went to the playground at four,” Sam says. “She went missing a week ago."  
  
"Okay." Dean sighs. "Fine. Whatever. We better get walking then, at least try and get a couple of miles done."  
  
The sun is already starting to set , and the further they walk into the woods, the darker it becomes until Dean can't tell if the sky’s getting darker or the trees are blocking out the remaining sunlight. They end up walking in the same stride, and Dean's not sure if he wants to be freaked out or roll his eyes at how lame it is. All they need is the hand holding and the bunches of wildflowers. A real Hallmark moment, minus they're both guys. And brothers.  
  
"Any idea how we're gonna ward this thing off at night?" Dean asks. "I'd rather be walking and armed than asleep and Boogeyman chow."  
  
"Light.”  
  
"Light?"  
  
"Yeah. I've been trying to think like a kid." Sam rolls his eyes at the look Dean gives him. "Seriously, hear me out. If this is anything like the Boogeyman, when are kids not afraid of him?"  
  
Dean thinks he's caught on pretty quickly. "During the day."  
  
"Exactly. We mimic the day. Shine lights everywhere. Won't be the best way to sleep, but hopefully we survive."  
  
"Hopefully," Dean mutters. Because that sounds reassuring. "Any ideas  _how_ to keep it daytime? Short of hijacking the sun."  
  
Sam grins. "About twenty flashlights and two dozen packets of AA batteries. Bought them in that camping supply store. We make a circle around the campsite, add in a fire, and hope for the best."  
  
Sam really is overusing the word 'hope' lately, and Dean  _hopes_  it's not a bad omen.  


 

  
According to Sam's calculations — that Dean quietly thinks are bullshit, because he's been turning the compass in circles — they've managed three miles in an hour, which he says is decent. Dean's walked more that in half the time during Dad's crazy warrior regiments, but opts not to bring it up.  
  
It's almost completely dark now, save for the beams being emitted from their flashlights. Dean has to hand  _that_  to Sam; these flashlights are pretty kick-ass, way more effective than the ones he usually buys from the gas station that sputter out within a day.  
  
"We try and find a somewhat open area," Sam says, like he's some perfect boy scout. "Make a fire, set up the tent—"  
  
"I know how to camp," Dean says. "I just think we should keep walking if we're relying on flashlights to save us."  
  
"We'll be too tired and have no idea how fast this thing moves. We need to be prepared."  
  
"I never sleep," Dean says, which was true until recently.  
  
"Well I do," Sam says, and that puts an end to the conversation.  
  
They don't walk much further before Sam proclaims a patch of dirt suitable to be their campsite. Dean doesn't think it looks any different than any other piece of dirt they've walked past in the last hour, but dumps the duffle anyway because it's starting to kill his shoulder.  
  
"Plus side, it hasn't rained here in a while," Sam says. He's starting to kick at logs and pick up branches, throwing them into a pile like they're twigs. "It should be easy enough to start a fire."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
When Dean flicks open his lighter under a handful of leaves Sam says, "No."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I haven’t piled the branches right.”  
  
Dean can't do anything more than stare at Sam, utterly confused. "You have to set them up now? Dude, we're camping. Just...do what works."  
  
"No," Sam says. "We have to make a teepee or start it in a log so it burns all night."  
  
"Where the hell did you read that?" Dean asks. Granted, there were a few sentences of survivalism in Dad's journal, but Dean only remembers fire being referenced in context of how to kill something. Not how to arrange artistic branches or find suitable logs.  
  
"Brochure." Sam shrugs. "We stay in motels everywhere, sometimes there's things worth reading in those magazine racks."  
  
"You're so weird, you know that?"  
  
"You might've mentioned it."  
  
"Yeah, well." Dean makes his way over to Sam. "I'm weird too so I figure it's all evened out. So what  _can_  I do to arrange these branches to Survival Man's liking?"  
  
Sam gestures with a branch toward a big, old log he was kicking at earlier. "Figure we can use that."  
  
Dean’s gotta hand it to him, Sam’s method of setting up the campfire works, and soon they've got huge flames licking at the wood and dancing toward the sky. Sam insisted on a camping stove, which Dean thinks was a good investment, and they throw in cans of chili and two-minute rice, the smell rising and filling the air around them.  
  
Dean pulls out the map as Sam cooks. "We're here, yeah?" He points to a large area of brush that looks like nothing but San says is where they’re at. "And we have to go here."  
  
"You  _think_  we have to go there," Sam says. He scratches the pot hard as he stirs. " _I_  think we should've tried something other than the all-guns-a-blazin' approach."  
  
Dean shifts closer to Sam. "Let's not argue, okay?"  
  
"I'm not—" Sam starts, then cuts off and smiles softly, knowingly. Though Dean’s not sure what he knows. "Yeah. Let's not."  
  
The fire hisses and sizzles and it's not nearly as dark as should be with all the flashlights everywhere, but Dean thinks it still manages to be peaceful. The fall weather manages to keep everything crisp, but the fire surrounds them and takes the edge off. Looking up, the trees obscure most of his view of the sky but a few silver flecks still shine through.  
  
"Hey," he says to Sam, suddenly hit by a memory he didn't even know existed before then. "Didn't you learn about the constellations one year? Yeah — you forced me to sit outside with you while you bored me with all the stupid names."  
  
"You were  _fascinated._  Don't try to tell me otherwise. I remember you trying to impress girls by showing them where Aquarius was."  
  
Dean looks over at his brother Sam who's also gazing up at the sky now. The flashlights have managed to miss him, and instead Sam's only lit up by the flames of the fire. Dean’s still wondering where exactly things changed. It’s pointless. It might have always been this way.  
  
Silence stretches until Dean stifles a yawn and stands up again. "Come on, you were whining about how we needed sleep. And we're walking again as soon as it hits 7AM — set my watch and everything."  
  
For a moment Sam doesn't move, and there's the strangest expression on his lips, halfway between a smile and a smirk.  
  
"What?" Dean asks, and be feels heat rising up his face.  
  
"Nothing." It's definitely a smile. Sam stands so they’re nose to nose. He cups a hand behind Dean's neck, tugging him closer until their lips are touching and Sam's warmer than the outside air should let him be. "Just sleep?"  
  
Oh. Now he gets the look. "Yeah," Dean says and he's not so sure where that comes from. The entire trek here he's been thinking about what a tent plus Sam would mean, but he  _is_  tired and they  _are_  on a job.  
  
Sam lets go and leaves Dean standing there as he turns to go into the tent. Dean’s still got no idea what Sam’s going for, but one last look at the stars and Dean follows him in, kicking off his boots at the entrance.  
  
"Shouldn't leave them there," Sam warns. "Spiders."  
  
"Can handle spiders," Dean replies, but he takes his shoes inside anyway and shoves them into a corner before zipping the tent up tightly. Turning around, he realises just how light it is in here and has no idea how they're actually going to sleep.  
  
And the one — okay, one of  _many_  — things Dean didn't account for is the sleeping bags. They had three in the trunk, rolled up alongside the tent. Only one has any semblance of  _being_  a decent sleeping bag anymore. That one was Sam's once upon a time. Of course.  
  
The other two are have rips all through there lining and Dean decided the best course was to create a bed out of the three, so that's how they're going to sleep; with Sam's sleeping bag spread over the two them, even though it's really too small.  
  
Sam's already lying back, his jacket under his head as a makeshift pillow because they've both forgotten whether pillows are something you take camping or not. Dean takes off his own jacket, crawls under the opened sleeping bag next to Sam, and puts his balled up jacket under his own head.  
  
"We need to walk at least fifteen miles tomorrow," Dean says through a yawn.  
  
Sam hums in the back of his throat and one of his hands moves to rest against Dean's chest. "Sleep now."  
  
Dean thinks he should shrug Sam off and move to the end of the makeshift bed, but he doesn't. Instead he rolls over and Sam follows, the hand staying against Dean's chest. His nose is pressed against Dean's neck and his breath so warm that it's surprisingly not all that difficult to block out the artificial light streaming in through the tent.  
  
This is how it's supposed to be.

 

 

They start walking again the next morning. A new day, an opportunity to make right everything he’s done wrong. For Dean, that's a long and varied list. He glances over at Sam as they walk, side-stepping huge fallen logs that Sam crouches down to study and then declare that it’s fallen due to age or weather — not the Boogeyman. Most of the time when he catches Dean staring he smiles, and Dean awkwardly looks the other way.  
  
Lunch is eaten while still trekking and Sam uses his compass to say they've already managed eight miles. They might be able to reach the old mine by tonight or early tomorrow. Dean doesn’t know how to feel about this. Because as much as he wants to save those kids, he also wants to have Sam for as long as absolutely possible.  


 

  
Dean gets his wish. They camp out again that night because they didn't make the needed miles — and because Dean can't read a map.  
  
"It's real simple, Dean," Sam told him when they had to make a pitstop, reasses. He was oozing sarcasm, patronising right down to the bone. "The scale is here."  
  
"Shut up," Dean told him, snatching up the map and scrunching it into his back pocket. He didn't need it anyway.  
  
Now they are at least three hours behind schedule. Dean is still blaming Sam's wacky compass, and collecting a fresh bundle of branches as far away from him as he can possibly get.  
  
In the back of his mind there are thoughts of the Boogeyman — or the Slenderman or the ghost or the fucking  _whatever_  — but he pushes them down. He can still hear Sam crunching on sticks and dead grass, so he isn't so far away he can't be saved. Or save himself, thank you very much; he has a gun, two knives, and a lighter at various points on his body. Fully equipped for whatever chooses to go bump in the night. Still, he collects sticks and branches and takes them back.  
  
"Thanks," Sam says, toeing the sticks. "No old logs around, so I think you get to see Survival Man in action."  
  
Dean leans back on one of the nearby trees, annoyance about Sam showing him up earlier about the map seeping away into the dusty ground. "This should fun."  
  
By the time Sam's done, Dean's ready to hand him the map and fall back in line. Sam knows what he's doing, that much is clear. The fire crackles and pops around them and Sam even goes to make them food while Dean stands there awkwardly without anything to do. Eventually he settles on re-reading Sam's research, tracing his fingers over his brother's handwriting while Sam stirs the soup nearby.  
  
"Should be enough salt in here to make up for the lack of fast food," Sam says, handing Dean a mug. He takes a sip and almost drops it as the soup burns his mouth. Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude — fire. Wait for it to cool off.  
  
No point now. His mouth is too burnt to feel anything. He takes another sip, grimaces, and places the mug down near his feet.  
  
"Remember when I thought I had a monster in my closet?" Sam asks. His voice is loud in the night, bouncing off plants and rocks. This time he's sitting in the direct line of one of the flashlights but doesn't seem to notice. "I was what, nine?”  
  
Dean does. It was when they were staying with one of Dad's friends. An old navy buddy he'd said but, in coming years, Dean soon realised a lot of Dad's friends were just fellow hunters. And not exactly  _friends_. "You wouldn't even  _sleep_  in that room, kept crawling into my bed."  
  
"You liked it."  
  
"You had  _cold fee_ t. It was like sleeping next to a fucking popsicle."  
  
"Did I have cold feet last night?" Sam's voice has dropped.  
  
"No.”  
  
Dean looks out into the woods, up at the sky, down at his mug. Anywhere but directly at Sam. No, he doesn't have cold feet anymore. He also doesn't whine about Dean every five minutes or slam the door in his face. They're older now, different. That doesn't have to be a bad thing. Dean picks up his mug again and takes a sip, the beef and vegetable soup now only hot.  
  
"That was the first time Dad gave me my own gun," Sam says. His voice has a hard edge to it now, chipped and cold. "He'd rather hand me a weapon than spend five minutes convincing me I didn't have to be scared."  
  
Dean's appetite disappears. "Sammy, I..."  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "That's right —  _you_. You're the one who told me I didn't have to be scare and how to shoot the .45 so I didn't get myself in the foot. Oh, and don’t forget your little confession about our fucked up life after you learned about it.”  
  
Sam stands, kicking his mug over in the process. The contents spill out over the ground in a dark puddle, trailing their way toward the edge of the fire. Dean stands with him, keeping his distance but following Sam to where he walks over to a pile of far bushes and leans over. Dean catches up, places a hand on Sam's back, and tells him it's all going to be okay. It's all going to be okay. Even if he doesn’t believe it himself.  
  
When Sam turns back to Dean his eyes are shot red and watery and Dean smooths a hand over his forehead. He wants to repeat all those words he said when they were kids: that there's nothing to be afraid of, they'll find this monster and save those kids, just like Dean made sure to save Sammy both when be was little and now that he's grown — overgrown — and both his brother and more.  
  
"I'm gonna brush my teeth," Sam mumbles, pushing past Dean and going toward their tent.  
  
Dean almost goes with him but decides better of it, busying himself with cleaning up their small amount of cooking materials instead. He dumps the rest of the soup far from the campsite, his stomach too tied in knots to eat and knowing Sam feels the same, then slowly makes his way down to the river to where Sam's sitting at the bank.  
  
"What if this is the same thing?" he asks, his voice cracking at parts until he clears the emotion away. "That was the first hunt Dad gave me, right? And I couldn't kill it. I—"  
  
"No," Dean insists. "That wasn't a real monster Sammy, I promise. Just Dad having no other way to deal with anything."  
  
One of Sam's hands wraps itself into Dean's shirt. "You don't know that—"  
  
"I  _do_  know that."  
  
Sam pulls back and looks at Dean. "What?"  
  
"Sam." Dean sighs. "Dad told me all about this life a long, long time before you thought the Boogeyman was out to get you."  
  
Sam goes silent, his hand falling away. He moves back further, forcing a distance between them that Dean doesn't even try to fill. He just has to keep talking.  
  
"Dad told me pretty much after it happened."  _Mom burning on the ceiling, Dad going fucking crazy, their whole world falling apart_. "I guess—" Dean breaks off, takes in a breath. "I guess he was trying to protect us, y'know? Make sure we knew what was out there."  
  
"That..." Sam bites down on his lip and looks up, more moonlight washing over his skin. He looks so young like that. Dean wishes he never had to know the truth about what they do. "That's so  _stupid_."  
  
Dean shrugs.  
  
"You had to deal with it all,” Sam says. “You were four when Mom died."  
  
"Don't talk about her, Sam."  
  
Even after all these years he still can't do it. Picturing her face hurts enough, and it’s always followed by the image of her burning. An image he's put together based on Dad's drunken ramblings and the first few pages of his journal. They don't say 'mom' unless it's preceded by 'the thing that killed'. Because they're going to find that son of a bitch. At least they were, before Sam—  
  
Dean closes the space between them before Sam can try and make a response. His lips open, willingly, and Dean threads his hands through his brother's hair, pulling him closer until Sam's fingers dig into his back. Dean knows they can make this be okay if he forgets the word _Stanford_  for just a little while. He tugs Sam's hair tighter, holds him closer. Keeps them pressed together until all the air is gone from his lungs, and it's still not enough.  
  
"I wanna—" he tries, but realises what he's trying to ask and cuts off. Finds Sam's mouth again. This is enough. He doesn't need more.  
  
"What?" Sam asks, pulling away, and he has no breath left. The word is more mouthed than said, a gasp more than a question. Still, he has enough coherence to drop a hand into Dean's lap and trace it over his fast hardening cock. "What do you want?"  
  
Dean presses up into Sam's touch, thoughts of anything else forgotten. "This." Two of Sam's fingers settling on the head and move in slow, deliberate circles. Definitely all Dean ever wants. "You."  
  
"What else?" Sam's mouth drops to his neck and his kisses move in time with his hand’s movements. They’re met with a small bite that leaves Dean arching up. Sam's still only touching him through his jeans. That's all it takes.  
  
"Fuck me," Dean says before he can bite his tongue. Keeps pushing and pushing and Sam’s gonna call stop soon.  
  
Sam yanks down Dean's zipper and pulls out his cock just before Dean comes hard against his hand. He keeps moving and moving until it all becomes too much and Sam let's go. His mouth still stays firmly attached to Dean's neck, doesn't let go until Dean's breathing slows and he pulls Sam up to meet his lips. He's ready to return the favour when Sam shakes his head and Dean moves his hand away.  
  
"What?" A sinking feeling feels his body and all he can think is  _oh god, they've gone too far_. But Sam's smiling and the fear changes to confusion. "Sammy?"  
  
“I wanna take you up on that offer,” Sam says. Then he pauses, “If you meant it, I mean.”  
  
Dean's heartbeat picks up even more, faster than he would have thought possible, and he feels heat rise in his body. "Well, I just—"  
  
With another kiss Sam manages to shut him up. "Cause if you do, we can." The pounding of Dean's heart grows heavier and his cock twitches.  
  
Dean doesn't think he could lie even if he wanted to. He nods, stiff. "Should—" He has to pause, try and find his tongue. "We should go back to the tent."  
  
Sam stands and puts out a hand out to help Dean up, but Dean ignores it, yanking up his pants and getting to his feet. His legs are still unsteady, shaking, but it's not like the campsite is far and the obnoxious glow of too many flashlights and the crackling orange fire acts as a beacon to to draw them back.  
  
They reach the tent again and Dean kisses Sam hard and deep, nicking his lip in the process and flecking the taste of blood —  _Sam's blood_  — over his tongue.  
  
"Yeah?" Sam's lips move the word against Dean's.  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Of course yeah."  
  
How Sam manages to pull up the tent zipper without looking is a mystery to Dean, but one minute they're standing outside with the moon shining down on them and the next Dean's being pulled down against Sam's body.  
  
He braces his hands on either side of Sam's face to save him from feeling the full weight, but Sam's hands are heavy and strong on his back and the rest of Dean is resting on him. Cock to cock through two layers of denim causes an almost painful sensation, but if Dean focuses his attention on Sam's mouth and chest all he feels is the hot pressure that feels so fucking good he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of it.  
  
"Sam," he says when it becomes too much and the pain has disappeared to be replaced with a different type of pleasure. "Come on.”  
  
Dean rolls off Sam to dig through the side-pocket of his duffel and emerges with a small bottle that he un-caps and hands to Sam. Once Sam takes it, Dean hooks his leg under Sam's knee so he rolls over with Sam on top and Dean underneath.  
  
The light is still shining through the thin tent and Dean can see every line, every muscle, every patch of uneven skin tone on Sam's body. Sam stills.  
  
"We really don't," Sam says. Dean feels Sam’s hand move in slow circles against his thigh. It's probably meant to be comforting, but it's strangely a turn on. Deep down, Dean’s starting to realise that everything Sam does is going to have some further effect on him now.  
  
"No. But I want to." Dean says, then reaches down and starts with his button and zip.  
  
Soon Sam's hands push Dean's away and pull up his shirt, tossing it to join Sam's, wherever that ended up. Dean’s still aware that they have to find the Boogeyman, and then...then Sam’s going to leave again for Stanford. Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and brings him down for another kiss but it doesn’t block anything out.  
  
Sam pulls his jeans down past his knees and slowly, slowly the rest of the way down his legs. Then he stops.  
  
“Come on,” Dean urges.  
  
When Sam keeps playing stubborn bastard, hand still on Dean's thigh and mouth back on Dean's neck, Dean knows he'll have to call the shots. He wraps his hand around Sam's wrist and brings it down where they both pause.  
  
Dean finds his voice first. "Sam." He pushes back, just a little.  
  
Sam draws his hand away and squeezes some of the lube onto his fingers. He presses up into Dean and there's nothing left to say. Dean’s head falls back against the makeshift pillow of clothing and Sam moves forward, cock sliding hot and heavy against Dean's thigh.  
  
Sam’s fingers are soon replaced with the head of his cock. Another searching look that leads Dean to pull harder at Sam's hair. All he can think is  _please, please, please_  because they only have a couple of days before Sam leaves again. After that, Dean has no idea when he'll see his brother again or even if he'll survive it. If he just gets this, maybe it'll be enough.  
  
Sam thrusts into him and " _Fuck_ ," is the only word Dean can get out.  
  
Sam drops a hand to Dean's cock and starts jerking him, strokes starting slow like he's prolonging this. Until they get faster, messier, no rhyme or reason or technique but it's  _his_  hand and Dean spills all over it, calling Sam's name and out into the woods. Sam's thrust becomes less erratic until it's just a snap of his hips once, twice, and the way he says "Dean" sounds more like a sigh.  


 

  
"It's Thanksgiving," Sam says as they start hiking the next day. It should be their last day going in. If the monster and those kids are at the mine, Sam and Dean will find them by late afternoon.  
  
"Really?" Dean asks.  
  
"Yeah." Sam laughs. "Only been out of touch with civilisation two days, Dean. I can still remember the date."  
  
"Bite me," Dean mutters, hauling himself up a particularly slippery rock. "Hey, remember that Thanksgiving when Dad brought home a whole turkey?"  
  
"It was pre-cooked from Walmart," Sam says.  
  
"So? Still tasted awesome and he stuck around to eat." Dean jumps from the rock and dry leaves crunch under his feet. He shoves Sam in the shoulder. "Quit being a downer, Sammy."  
  
"I'm not being a downer."  
  
He sure  _sounds_  like one, but Dean remembers his internal promise to bite his tongue and tries to do just that.  
  
Like Dean knowing  _this_  is the reason Sam will leave again — Dad. The person who has managed to change everything Dean thought he knew about his brother over the course of a year. Less, actually — or more. It's impossible to tell what sent this entire tumbleweed into motion, only that Dean knows its nowhere close to stopping. Everything is just getting so much more complex and Dean feels like he's drowning in it.  
  
"How's school, anyway?" Dean asks, anything to stop himself from sinking into his own head.  
  
Dumbass move. Sam's steps slow and he turns back to Dean. His words are simple, casual, and maybe that's the worst part. "Honestly?" he says. "It;s one of the best things that's ever happened to me."  
  
Then he keeps walking while Dean stays there and tries to remember how to make his legs move.  
  
It's stupid really; he knows Sam wanted this. He wasn't expecting a negative answer, not at all, but  _best thing that's ever happened to him_? What the fuck is Sam playing at?  
  
"Are you serious?" Dean calls after he realises how far behind he's fallen, but his legs just won't keep carrying him.  
  
Sam throws a look over his shoulder. "Yeah."  
  
"You're not." Dean's mouth seems to be moving on its own accord now, and even if he were biting on his tongue hard enough to draw blood he doesn't think he could stop. He's also walking, hardly aware of it until he's having to look up at Sam. "In eighteen years of life you've done better things than go to college."  
  
"What do you want me to say, Dean?" Sam looks  _bored_  and that summons an anger in Dean he's having a very hard time shutting down. "What do you think I’d say?"  
  
"Anything!" So much for shutting up, for keeping calm. "What about when we were younger, huh? Christmases? Birthdays?"  
  
"Oh, right, Christmas. All those times when Dad was either hunting or passed out on the couch?" Sam laughs, dark and bitter. Dean hates to admit it, but any reaction is still better than nothing. "Or did you mean my birthdays? Dad remembered how many of them? Three? Four?"  
  
A moment passes where neither of them speaks. Dean's mind starts ticking backwards, swiping back over years and years of life. Twenty-two years, but it feels like centuries when only eighteen of them matter. He sees them being kids, Sam being a broody, obnoxious teenager. Then he sees the last few months. Feels the touches, the kisses, the  _fucking_. Gets to feel what's been missing for so long, leaving an ache in his chest a size the Grand Canyon ain't got nothing on. If that meant nothing to Sam—  
  
"I always remembered," Dean says. His voice has dropped. "There wasn't a single birthday or Christmas where I was on a hunt and away from you. So fuck you, Sam."  
  
He attempts to brush — shove — past Sam, but his brother catches his elbow and whirls him back around, grasping his jaw in his palms and slamming their mouths together. No. Dean rips himself away.  
  
"You can't do that," he says, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.  
  
"Why the hell not?"  
  
"You chose Stanford," Dean says, and keeps walking.  


 

  
They don't speak for hours. Dean lets the conversation roll around in his head, tries to find something that makes sense, and gives up when he decides it's not possible. Sam wasn't serious. That's all there is to it.  
  
"You weren't serious," Dean says when they stop for lunch and to start working on some sort of weapon that might kill this thing.  
  
Sam is hunched over the attempts of a Molotov cocktail. He doesn't look up.  
  
"You weren't serious," Dean repeats, squatting down close to his brother. He reaches out, brushes Sam's hair over his ear.  
  
Sam thrusts his head back. "Don't."  
  
"Grow up, Sam."  
  
Sam keeps ignoring him, pulling tape from a reel, too much of it, and Dean grabs hold of his wrist, pulls his hand away.  
  
Finally, Sam looks at him. "I was serious."  
  
"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "I know you weren't."  
  
"Then you don't know anything."  
  
With that, Sam dumps his materials and walks off.  
  
Dean almost follows him, but Sam doesn't go far. Just to a small rise of land and stands on it for a long, long time. Until Dean's finished making one weapon — that may or may not work — and walks over to Sam.  
  
Sam turns to Dean. "What's yours?"  
  
Dean sits down and pats the dirt. Sam doesn't listen. "What's my what?"  
  
"Best thing. What's the best thing that's ever happened to you?"  
  
There's no hesitation, not even a moment of thought. He doesn't need it. He shades his eyes from the sun and looks at Sam's face. "This."  
  
Sam smirks in a way that doesn't meet his eyes and shakes his head. But he does sit down, a gaping space left between them. "Now you're the one not being serious. Whatever this is—" he gestures between the two of them "—it's not normal."  
  
"We hunt monsters," Dean says. "We  _aren't_  normal."  
  
"Name three hunters who wouldn't agree with me."  
  
This time when Dean reaches out to touch Sam, Sam doesn't pull away. "It's still this."  
  
"No. It's Christmas 1991," Sam says. It takes Dean less than a second to clue into what he means, but Sam voices it anyway. "You finally got to share the burden."  
  
"You honestly think I wanted that?" Dean picks up a stick, throws it has hard as he can at a tall redwood. It shatters into pieces. "That was one of the worst nights of my life."  
  
Sam shrugs. "I know you. Doesn’t matter how long ago it was. You think that but it doesn't change the fact you lost something that was eating you up inside. Ever heard of 'a problem shared is a problem halved'?"  
  
"Ever heard of 'shut up Sam'?"  
  
Dean scrambles to his feet and returns to their campsite. He stomps out the fire, swings his duffle over his shoulder, and hurls the other bag at Sam.  
  
"Even if I can’t save you, we've still got kids to save."  


 

  
According to Sam's watch, it’s 2:07PM exactly when they can see the opening of the mineshaft. Seven minutes past schedule according to that very same watch. The only thing Dean says to Sam is, "You still got weapons?". The only thing Sam says to Dean is, "Shh. You want it to hear us?"  
  
They crouch behind a patch of ferns and the nearby creek bubbles and rushes by, loud enough that Dean thinks — hopes — Boogeyman wouldn't be able to hear them even if they started yelling. But he shuts his mouth and glares at Sam so hard he's downright surprised he’s not shooting lasers.  
  
"If we’re gonna get those kids, we better do it now," Dean says.  
  
Sam sticks out a hand, keeps Dean from moving forward. "No," he mouths.  
  
Dean strains to see into the mine. He tries to make out something, but the trees are too thick and casting everything in shadows.  
  
"Dean." Sam grabs onto the collar of Dean's jacket, forcing him closer until he's almost going cross-eyed trying to catch Sam's gaze. "I've listened to you and come out here when he have next to no idea what we’re doing. Now you're gonna listen to  _me_  and wait."  
  
Dean pulls himself away from Sam and looks back at the mine. He can still feel Sam's hands on him, buzzing across his neck, and Sam's body is still so close. He's not pissed, not really. He's glad Sam's come this far despite everything.  
  
"What are we waiting for?" Dean whispers, because he just has to break the silence.  
  
"It."  
  
An image of a killer clown flashes through Dean's mind at about the same time Sam's hand clenches against his wrist. His eyes fly, snapping onto something moving in the shadows.  _It_. Before it can even really register, Sam's hand is gone and he's running past Dean. So much for waiting.  
  
"Sam!" And so much for being quiet.  
  
Dean jumps to his feet and rushes through the thicket in the direction he thinks Sam went. Almost impossible to tell because it's so dark and Sam's faster on his feet than anyone Dean's ever come across. The mineshaft is to the left, beyond that the river. Dean sprints right.  
  
"Sam!" he yells again, jumping over thick logs that are coated in moss. His foot catches on one, slides erratically until he falls, but he gets back on his feet and keeps going. He couldn't have gone far, not with all these trees everywhere. "Sam! Where the hell are you?"  
  
A snap of a twig in the opposite direction and Dean's back in pursuit. It's not much further before he makes out what looks like Sam, slumped against a tree. There's a slight moment of relief, the twist in his chest loosening, but it's clenched again when he makes out what's standing over his brother.  
  
 _Floating_ , more than standing. Those photos spoke the truth, but they didn't prepare Dean for the reality. He's seen a lot of monsters in his life. This one is huge, taller than most of the trees and Dean has to stare up at it to even catch a sight.  
  
He can't see it's face, even if it has one. Just black arms that fly outward, legs that disappear in the brush. Dean's frozen until until it starts moving again, almost pulsating, and it's shrinking. Being swallowed into the ground just behind Sam.  
  
 _Sam_.  
  
Remarkably, Dean's still holding the botched Molotov cocktail. Rather than wait for a voice of reason to pop into his head, he goes for it.  
  
"Hey!" he calls.  
  
It's still sinking and Dean now he can see the face. If that word is even fitting. The face is more like a criss-cross of bulging lines that resemble almost scars. That hadn't been shown in the photographs. It comes closer, past Sam. Enough distance. Dean grips the glass bottle tighter and stares up at it. It looks nothing like a Wendigo, nothing like anything they've killed with fire before. He has to try, knows that. Sam still hasn't moved.  
  
He lights the end of the rag and throws.  
  
There's a brief, breathtaking moment where everything moves in slow motion. The fire is visible but it seems to stall in the air, not closing the distance between Dean and Slender. Dean blinks, Slender speeds up. Fire hitting dead-centre, consuming upward and outward until the huge arms are engulfed. There's no sound except for the fire licking and hissing, no movement.  
  
The fire's not doing anything.  
  
 _Oh shit_.  
  
More time passes. Time being seconds. Less than seconds. Still enough for Boogeyman to do whatever he wants. Only it doesn't do anything. Not right away. Dean keeps watching, frozen. As he does, the fire starts  _melting_  into it's body. The flames grow smaller and smaller until it's only licking around the centre of it's chest and before being enveloped entirely.  
  
Holy shit. What is this thing?  
  
It takes another step toward Dean and he's out of options. Sam's got the other weapon but he’s on the ground, Dean can still seem him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t even know if his brother’s still breathing.  
  
The monster takes another step closer and Dean stands his ground. He's got knives and guns, and Dean Winchester doesn't go down without both arms swinging.  
  
Closer. Closer. Dean reaches into his waistband. He'll stab first, shoot as second option. He thinks he could cut the arms off, hopes those long arms are the only weapon it has (because consuming fire is defence not offence, right? Not that it makes things any better).  
  
He pulls out his knife, points it at Slender. Even in the shadows Dean can tell it’s Slenderman, definitely; it in no way resembles the crude Boogeyman sketches Sam drew as a kid.  
  
That's when it suddenly slinks back. Retreats so fast Dean's not sure what he's seeing until there's nothing in front of him. He does a whole three-sixty just to make sure, then strains his eyes in the darkness to see anything through the trees.  
  
It's only him and Sam in the whole vicinity. Dean goes to Sam.  
  
"Sammy," he calls once he thinks he's close enough. Sam doesn't move and Dean's blood runs ice-cold as he sprints the rest of the distance. "Sam!"  
  
He drops to Sam's side and shakes his brother's shoulder. No response. Sam's eyes are closed and he's slumped up against a huge redwood. Dean finds the muscle between neck and shoulder with two of his fingers and grips hard. Sam yelps and his eyes fall open. Dean breaks into a grin.  
  
"Hey," he says. Then the grin falters. "What were you doing? Running off like that?"  
  
Sam looks at him in confusion for a moment.  _Oh crap, he's got a concussion_. Then something must click and his face smooths out. "Had to kill it."  
  
Dean picks up the discarded Molotov by Sam's side. "These things? Don't work. It  _eats_ fire, man. Soaks it up or something."  
  
"What?" The confusion is back on Sam's face.  
  
"Yeah. I got a direct hit. Nothing." He drops down to his knees. "Are you okay? Anything broken?"  
  
Sam shakes his head and goes to stand, before hissing out in pain and falling back on his ass.  
  
"What?" Dean scrambles closer. "What is it?"  
  
It'd help if they knew exactly what Slenderman did to its victims, but truth is they've got nothing. So if its done something to Sam...Dean doesn't want to think about that.  
  
"Ankle," Sam says.  
  
A wave of momentary relief manages to wash over Dean. Ankle. Okay. That's a normal, human injury. Then it dawns on him that they're in the middle of the woods with no way out except back the way they've come.  _Fuck_.  
  
"Can you stand at all?"  
  
The nod Sam gives isn't particularly convincing, but he goes to pull himself up. Dean slides an arm under Sam's when he realises it's not going to work that way and thinks, yet again,  _fuck_ , because nothing about this is going to be easy.  
  
"Hey, Dean?"  
  
"Yeah?" Dean grunts. Sam is  _heavy_  when he's a partially dead weight.  
  
"I'm sorry for being a dick."  
  
Dean manages to get Sam into a standing position, though still has to play crutch. "I actually like your dick, so that's not a bad thing."  
  
"You can't take an apology, can you?" Sam tries to keep his balance, left foot not touching the ground. This is a serious injury and Dean knows it.  
  
"Sure I can."  
  
Truth be told, Dean's not ready to, but Sam doesn't need to know that. He's not interested in fighting.  
  
"You're gonna listen to your own damn words this time," Dean says. They've managed to get back behind the brush, Sam actually finding some ability to balance on his ankle. That means its not broken. Probably. Thank god.  
  
Sam nods against him, shoulder pressed up against Dean's and leg splayed out. They're still in a middle of a hunt, but Sam's hobbling is going to get them nowhere fast.  
  
"I say we get those kids," Dean says. "Then figure out what to do with this thing."  
  
"Still don't believe the fire did nothing." Sam shifts, leaves crackling and grass shifting under his feet.  
  
"Yeah, well." Dean peers out toward the mine, trying to glance some kind of movement. It shouldn’t be this dark in only the afternoon. "Shouldn't have gotten yourself knocked out, little brother."  
  
Sam mutters something under his breath. It sounds vaguely like "jerk".  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
They really should have invested in some binoculars from that camping store. There could be up to seven kids sitting inside there. Or there could be none. If this thing is like a wendigo, it could be storage for dead meat. Dean's stomach turns at the thought. They can't just sit here and wait.  
  
"You stay," he says to Sam. "I'll bring the kids out to you. Then..." Okay. So everything past that is still up in the air.  
  
"Told you we needed more research," Sam says.  
  
"We're not fighting." Dean begins to stand. "Do this, okay? 'Cause I got nothing else."  
  
Sam's lack of response is answer enough. Dean squeezes his shoulder, then thinks ah hell, and leans down to kiss him.  
  
When he pulls back up, Sam doesn't nearly so happy as Dean thinks he should.  
  
"What?" Dean asks once the answer doesn't easily appear by way of looking into Sam's eyes  
  
"Is that like a kiss of death?" Sam's mouth quirks up in what seems to be a feeble attempt at a smirk. It doesn't last more than a second before it falls flat.  
  
Dean tries to smile instead. He's not sure if he has any better success. Whatever this thing is, they haven't confronted it before. "I'll be fine. Just wait here."  
  
Rather than stick around and spend more time overthinking it — which, okay, maybe wouldn't be a bad thing — Dean steps out and starts his way across the dark space, littered with trees and the smallest of natural paths that show him the mineshaft through a cloud of shadows.  
  
This thing's smart, Dean will give it that. With the branches and height of the redwoods, Dean has no idea if he's seeing tree or monster when the shadows move. Factor in the rushing creek nearby, and he can't hear the snap of twigs or crunch of leaves. Plain and simple? He's fucked if this thing jumps out to say hi.  
  
He sticks to the trees, presses his back flat against a huge, cold trunk when he's sure something with arms and legs is coming toward him. However, when he looks around, nothing is moving. He looks over and tries to find Sam, but he's changed angles and he can't see his brother. That's when it hits him, that he's left an injured Sam out in the open.  
  
Rule number one, Dean: Family.  
  
He should go back. Every fibre of his being says to go back. He even finds himself moving toward Sam, body facing in the direction where small beams of sunlight are still shining through and letting him see more than three feet in front of himself. Only he can't. He has to see this through and then go back to Sam. It's not like Sam can't protect himself, right? Even with a busted ankle he’s one of the best hunters around. Dean takes a breath and pushes himself away from the tree.  
  
The further in he goes, the slower his steps become. Dean only manages to realise that when leaves are getting caught up at the toe of his boots as he tries to slide through them. Though he can't speed up when its getting so dark that he can't see more than a foot in front of himself. This was a bad idea. A bad, stupid, idiotic idea. But there's still those kids, and he can't turn back.  
  
There's another snap of a twig and this time Dean's sure the shadows are Slender. He freezes and reaches for his knife.  
  
After painstaking minutes of what feels like no heartbeat, Dean decides that nothing's going to eat him and keeps walking. He would go for his flashlight right now, but he's not sure how effective one measly beam of light will be against this thing and he'd rather not draw attention to himself and become monster chow. Walking across the dark space and hoping nothing jumps out at him becomes his best option.  
  
He never said the best was  _good_.  
  
At the opening of the mineshaft, there's a small sliver of light that breaks through the high trees and makes yellow shapes on the rocks. But it's the stench that comes to Dean first when he steps closer. It makes his stomach roll and just about double-over because he recognises that smell from digging up fresh graves and hunting ghouls. He covers his face as he steps into the rickety opening.  
  
When nothing jumps out at him and he thinks he might be getting used to the smell, Dean reaches for his flashlight, thinks  _here goes nothing_ , and flicks it on. It's a freaking weak beam and doesn't really help him see anything as he swipes it around.  
  
"Hey!" he calls out. "It's— the police."  
  
Kids would come out of hiding to that, right? He walks further in.  
  
He hears something, faint before growing louder and echoing against the walls. Whimpering, he decides, as he strains to head. It sounds like a child crying and Dean breathes out a lungful of air. There's one. He and Sam have saved at least one. That might be as good as they get, but at least it's something.  
  
"What's your name?" Dean asks as he moves toward the sound. His flashlight bounces off the walls and he catches sight of dark stains. Blood, he knows it's blood. Just like he knows the crunching beneath his feet is bones. This is one sick son of a bitch and he’s going to kill it.  
  
"C—Cindy," comes a small voice, choked off with a sob.  
  
"Cindy, I'm Dean." He feels something hard snap under his foot and has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from puking. "Are you hurt?"  
  
"No."  
  
Well that's something.  
  
"Please help me, I—" Her voice cuts out again, this time into ratcheting breaths and high-pitched sobs.  
  
Dean picks up his pace, would run if he could take more than one step on solid ground without fear of tripping. There are so many bones and he doesn't even want to consider what that mean. This thing must have been taking kids for decades. Dean's curses every hunter who's stepped foot in California and not realised this hellhole exists, and with a string of missing persons behind it at that.  
  
"Cindy, I'm gonna get you out of here," Dean calls.  
  
He re-positions the flashlight and catches another eye-full of bones. Two skulls, a ribcage. Turning the next corner, he finally sees something worth looking at.  
  
"Cindy," he says.  
  
The little girl strung up by her hands lifts her head at his voice. She's making small whimpers of sound that replace the sobbing. It's easier now for him to ignore the crunch of bones and reach the girl.  
  
"Are you hurt?" Stupid question. Even from the dull shine of the flashlight he can see that her wrists are being cut into by the ropes and staining it red. That doesn’t even take into consideration how she’s been taken hostage by some fire-absorbing psycho monster.  
  
Still, the kid's a trooper. She shakes her head.  
  
"I'm going to get you out of here," Dean says. Again. It's a mantra by now, and it's true. He'll save her. If it's the only kid he manages to get out of here, then so be it. She's coming out free. Safe. And whatever’s been kidnapping them all will die. Today. Dean will walk out of this place with this girl, go to Sam — who will be alive, well, magically healed — and come up with a way to end it.  
  
Dean grabs the knife from his pocket and moves closer to Cindy. "How long have you been here?"  
  
Up close he can see the tears pooling in her eyes. "Don't know."  
  
Of course she doesn't. She's seven, eight tops. He offers her a smile a smile that he hopes is reassuring. "It's okay."  
  
The ropes have dug in her wrists deeply enough that Dean decides the best course of action is leaving them wrapped and just cutting her down. They've got a first aid kit. Basic medical training straight out of Dad's military books.  
  
When he gets her free she topples straight down into his arms, weak and shaking.  
  
"Do you know if anyone else is here?" he asks.  
  
She shakes her head. He thinks she might have blonde curls, but now they're coated in dirt and sticking to her face.  
  
"All right." He'll get her out of here then check back. He attempts a reassuring smile. "Told you I'd get you out."  
  
It's significantly harder to navigate a small girl in his arm, a flashlight, and deep-seated desire to avoid catching sight of any blood, bones, or flesh, though Cindy's probably seen it all. That doesn't actually make Dean feel any better. He pulls her tighter against his chest until he feels the curls set against his neck and hopes her eyes are closed.  
  
The bones still crack under his feet and the flashlight still catches glimpses of the blood splattered walls. Table manners obviously aren't in the Boogeyman's vocabulary. Dean's just hoping that, if there's anyone else alive in here, he can find them and save them from a similar fate. Cindy whimpers against Dean's neck and he picks up the pace. In retrospect, he's soon worse than this and he can deal. But  _kids_.  
  
When he rounds the corner and catches sight of the faintest ray of sunlight in the distance, Dean lets out a sigh.  
  
A flickering shadow cuts through the light. Dean freezes.  
  
"Is it...?" Cindy asks, voice muffled against Dean's neck. He holds her there, doesn't let her look. Her breath hitches and Dean's own is gone.  
  
"Shh," he does manage in a low whisper.  
  
He holds the flashlight steady and takes another step forward. The shadow comes back, whipping by the entrance so fast Dean can't even be sure he's seen it. More an illusion, a remnant, a trick of the eyes. Only, as a hunter, he knows things like that don't exist.  
  
"I need you to be really quiet," Dean whispers to Cindy when slow whimpers start in her throat. She nods against him and becomes silent.  
  
Dean's moving so slowly that he might as well be standing still, but he's waiting. For movement. For sound. For action. The knife is still wedged in its holster at his waist and he still has the plan of cutting off this thing’s limbs.  
  
Another shadow cuts through the beam emitting from Dean's flashlight. As softly and inconspicuously as he can, Dean shifts Cindy closer to one hip. He reaches down and wraps his fingers around the handle of his knife.  _Just don't think about it_ , thrums through his mind. Because killing this fire-eating, child-killing monster with one small blade seems like a suicide mission.  
  
This whole trip seems like a suicide mission. Whether the monster kills him or not, Sam's still going back to college when they walk out of these woods. Dean can't do this alone. Not after everything they’ve been through. He knows that now.  
  
"Dean!"  
  
Sam's voice echoes down.  
  
"Sammy," he calls. Cindy jolts against him. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam shouts back down. "I've been thinking..."  
  
"That's good, Sam." Dean strains to catch sight of any more shadows and sees nothing. His fingertips still brush the handle of his knife. "About what?"  
  
There's another huge splatter of blood in front of them and Dean presses Cindy closer against him. He probably doesn't even need to bother — after all of this, the kid's gotta be messed up.  
  
"This thing takes kids at night, right?"  
  
Another puddle of blood. Dean doesn’t want to think about how many kids have died here. "That's what your research says."  
  
"And all the victims have been taken from within the vicinity?"  
  
"Get to the point, Sam!"  
  
Up ahead there's a single flash of light. Dean's got his knife back out and thrust out in front of him before he realises that the light is a beam and behind it stands Sam. Cindy looks out toward it. Dean hopes she doesn't take notice of anything except the light and Sam.  
  
"Thought your ankle was busted," Dean calls.  
  
"Not that bad." The flashlight momentarily blinds Dean before moving to the wall, exposing more death. He feels Cindy shift. She's seen. "But listen — what about sunlight?"  
  
The light gets brighter as Dean gets closer to the mineshaft’s entrance, just a couple feet away now. “How would that do anything?”  
  
He can see the slightest of sunlight filtering through the trees and casting pale yellow against the dirt.  
  
"What have we got to lose?"  
  
There's a number of important answers to Sam's question: the kids, the case, their  _lives_. Not to mention that pesky  _how_ still floating around the edges. "So how do we use  _sunlight_?"  
  
"We have to get him out in the open."  
  
Sam's flashlight is brighter than the sun as Dean takes those last few steps outside into the open. Everything around them in shadows, but none of them stir apart from the slightest of breezes. Dean can breathe now and so can Cindy.  
  
"You okay?" Dean asks her now that he can see her better. Her hair  _is_ the blonde colour he thought, but more matted in dirt and mud than he even imagined — the same as her clothes — and the blood coating the ropes around her wrists is more pronounced.  
  
She nods and opens her mouth only to close it tightly again. Dean nods along with her and decides it might be best not to let her down on the ground just yet.  
  
He turns back to Sam who is not-so-subtly favouring his left foot. Dean tries to ignore it. "So what are we doing?"  
  
There doesn't even need to be words with the way Sam looks at Cindy. It's written all over his face.  
  
"No," Dean says, low.  
  
"You dragged me out here," Sam says. His eyes don't leave Cindy. "I'm coming up with a solution."  
  
"We don't even know how this thing  _works_ —"  
  
“It kills, Dean,” Sam cuts off. “We know it kills and that our usual weapons don’t work. What else do you need?”  
  
Dean looks down at Cindy. He doesn’t need any medical degrees to know how close she came to death. Not to mention those who already met with it at the hands of this  _thing_.  
  
“Okay,” Dean says eventually. “I guess we don’t have any other choice.”  
  
The nod Sam gives is hardly more than a forward tilt of his head. “It makes sense. He hasn’t let any of them go. I think he’ll try and get…”  
  
Sam trails off, but Dean can finish his thoughts.  
  
“Yeah.” Dean can hardly look at Sam, but he also can’t look at the girl who’s starting to weigh down his arms and who’s hands tighten against his neck like it’s the only stable thing she’s found in so long. There’s no other choice. None.  
  
“If we get up on higher ground the satellite phone’s will work—”  
  
“—If  _I_ get up on higher ground,” Dean corrects. “Your ankle’s still busted. I’m letting you be that much of a liability.”  
  
“Whatever, Dean.” Sam’s eyes are hard again. No cloud of emotion apparent at all. He knows what needs to be done. “If  _someone_ gets up to higher ground where the phones work, you can lure this thing into the sunlight.”  
  
Dean snorts. “You really think it’s that stupid?”  
  
“I think it’s a monster.” Sam’s still deadpan. “And they’re usually pretty predictable.”  


 

  
_This is just like walking toward the mineshaft_  is all Dean can think as he starts trekking toward higher ground,  _only with the additional cargo of Cindy this time around_. The girl has grown silent and Dean’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. Instead he tries his best to ignore it and periodically looks back over his shoulder to make sure Sam hasn’t moved a single inch from his post by one of the huge trees.  
  
The last thing Dean needs is for Sam to go missing.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
That’s the first thing she’s said in quite a while.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean asks, trying to keep the strain and exhaustion out of his voice. When all this is over, he’s going to sleep for a week.  
  
 _If you can. With Sam gone._  
  
“He was right,” Cindy says.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Sam — about the sunlight. I think he was right. It was scared.”  
  
At least it looks like they  _might_ be onto something. Better than nothing. Dean tosses another look behind and see Sam still standing still with a gun in hand. Not that it’ll do anything, but it gives Dean a little more peace of mind.  
  
He keeps walking.  


 

  
By now Dean can see the break in the trees. but there’s also been no sign of Slender. If it doesn’t come...well, this is the end of the options. They can run at it with knives or guns, but Dean’s almost certain they won’t work.  
  
“You going okay?” Dean asks Cindy who’s now perched on his back. It lets them move faster.  
  
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice sounds weaker.  
  
“Almost there,” he assures and repeats, quieter, “Almost there.”  


 

  
It’s not here.  
  
They’re standing near the clearing, still hidden by a bunch of trees, and it’s not here.  
  
 _Fuck_.  
  
Dean has the satellite phone out and there’s reception, so they can leave the police to do all the gory cleanup and get some medics in to check out Cindy’s injuries. She still seems okay, all things considered, sitting with her back against a tree and looking down the way they came. Sam is out of sight and Dean just hopes that he’s alright.  
  
It’s silent up here except for when a bird bursts through the brush. Dean is on high guard every time that happen; must almost jump into the air. _Get a grip_. It’s not like he hasn’t killed before, even on his own.  
  
There’s another rustle deeper in the woods and Dean ignores it at first, keeping one eye on Cindy and trying to take in the entirety of the woods with the other. He never said it was a good plan.  
  
The rustle picks up and Dean turns, expecting to see another bird. That is what he sees at first. Followed by another, and another, and then what looks like more than a dozen rising up into the sky. A second passes, and Dean sees  _it_  again.  
  
The same as last time, more or less. The same long, dark body that rises up to no face. It's a monster all right. Nothing else describes the inhuman way it moves through those trees.  
  
"Cindy." Dean keeps his voice quiet and steady, his eyes on Slender as he moves closer to Cindy. "Come here."  
  
Her eyes grow wide as Dean quickly clears the distance between them, scoops her up into his arms, and gets moving. Faster.  _Their only chance_  are the words ringing in his ears, and they’re true. If this thing gets them...  
  
 _Sunlight._  
  
Dean throws a glance over his shoulder and Slender is still keeping up its solid, steady pace. But, even as Dean watches, it's arms begin to grow again. It's reaching toward them, trying to grab Cindy back.  
  
Dean wonders just how many kids managed to get away only to be yanked back in.  
  
They burst through into the sunlight and keep going. Dean doesn't know how far they need to get, or even if it will follow them. They're at the top of the highest peak in the vicinity. A huge open area that surrounds them in trees.  
  
All or nothing.  
  
Dean turns back to face it.  
  
Slender seems to stall where it stands behind clumps of huge trees. Even as Dean stands and watches, it's arm slides forward and out of the shadows to connect with a beam of light. For a moment nothing at all happens and Dean's mind just sits on a repetition of  _"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit"_  because it's not going to work. Nothing's going to happen. They're completely fucked.  
  
But then the arm that's extended is suddenly yanked back into the shadows as smoke bursts from it and rises toward the sky.  
  
 _It works_ , Dean realises.  _It works but it's not going to come into it_.  
  
Final chance blown.  
  
While Dean stays watching, waiting for it to retreat further back (and there's Sam. Sam still waiting back down near the mineshaft. Sam who still has a busted ankle of some level and no actual weapons), but it doesn't. It stays stock still.  
  
"You coming or what?" Dean calls out.  _Last chance, last chance, last chance._  "Hey!"  
  
That does nothing.  
  
Dean takes a few further steps back, and then it moves. Slowly floating toward them.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says. The grin spreading across his face is half happy, half hysterical. “Come on!”  
  
More steps back for Dean, more movements forward for Slender. Not quite out into the sunlight yet, but they’re getting there. Closer. Closer.  
  
The arm reaches out into the sunlight again, and this time begins smoking almost immediately. Thin and grey at first, but soon turning dark black as more and more of it fills the clearing around them. Soon he can't even see Slender — can't see anything more than a hand's length away. He pulls Cindy closer against him and tries to shield her from this and the smoke grows harsher, thicker; fills his mouth and nose until he's sure he can't breath anymore and has to close his eyes as they sting.  
  
Then it stops.  
  
Dean opens his eyes and sees the smoke fading up, away. Being sucked from the clearing up into the blue, blue sky. Left behind is nothing. Not a trace. Just more of the grey smoke as it becomes thin tendrils.  
  
He pulls out the phone again and dials.

 


	2. Epilogue

When they leave the woods it's into the quickly darkening evening, the sun almost hidden behind the forest. Dean thinks he should know how many days they've been gone, but exhaustion clouds his brain and all he can think is that it felt like a lifetime. A whole other world between the trees.  
  
Sam doesn't seem to feel any better and Dean wants to reach out, tousle his hair, give more life to the limp strands that fall into his brother's eyes. He doesn't, though. Instead he walks silently toward the Impala and trusts Sam to follow with his dragging foot falls. Because Dean knows what's coming next. He's known from the moment he went and wrangled Sam into this case.  
  
"So I guess you're going back to Stanford," Dean allows himself to say once the car is in sight. An escape if he needs it. Dean never claimed to choose fight over flight if he had both options in front of him.  
  
"Yeah," Sam says, but it doesn't really sound like an answer.  
  
Dean closes his eyes, breathes out through his nose, then lets himself turn around. Sam is looking right into his eyes and Dean hardly notices the dark, bruise-like bags firmly planted under them. He just sees Sam.  
  
"Dean," Sam says. Just his name. Just like Dad did after Sam went and vowed to stay away, but different.  
  
So different.  
  
Tiredness is making it hard for Dean to keep his thoughts straight. He’s not even sure if he can do this. Three steps and Sam's cleared the distance between them. Two more and he's got Dean pressed up against their car, cold metal on his back and warm skin on his front.  
  
"You know what," Sam says. It's not a question and Dean wouldn't be able to answer even if it were. "I still don't think this is normal." He pauses and presses closer to Dean, one of his legs sliding between both of Dean's. "I'm never going to think this is normal, but it's  _you_. It's always been you."  
  
Dean swallows. "You don't have to lie—"  
  
"I'm not lying," Sam cuts off. "You  _are_ the best thing in my life, okay?"  
  
Dean wants to believe it. He really does. But Sam still left. He still went to Stanford and built himself a new life — even when he went back to investigating cases he didn't tell Dean about it. But right now he's warm and solid and his leg has angled itself just  _there_ , so when Sam leans down and presses his mouth against Dean's, it isn't hard for Dean to clear his mind and respond.  
  
"You are," Sam murmurs against his lips.  
  
Dean can't do this. He pushes Sam away. "Come on. I can get you back Palo Alto before dark."  
  
"No." Sam shakes his head and wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist. One fluid movement and it's pinned against the roof of the Impala. "I want you to come back with me. Come on, Dean, there has to be something you want more than hunting."  
  
Dean's turn to say "No", but he doesn't pull away again. He lets Sam hold him still and search his eyes. There won't be anything there. Hasn't been for a long time. "I gotta find the thing that killed Mom, Sammy. That's it."  
  
He doesn't add what sits at the tip of his tongue:  _That's everything. That's the_ only  _thing_. And he definitely doesn't tell Sam how, after it's all said and done, he will have nothing left now that his brother's gone away.  
  
"It's not," Sam says. He's whispering now even though there's no reason for it. Out here there’s no one. It’s their own world.  
  
"Sam..." He can't say anything else; even if he tried the words wouldn't make sense. Instead he can just look at Sam and plead with his eyes. _C'mon, Sammy. You're the only one who could understand. You gotta. That's all I've got._  
  
The sun is dipping even lower. How long have they been back out here? Dean wants to give up on time, on responsibility, basically on everything. He's tired, and it's not just from the events of this week.  
  
"Hey," Sam says. Dean's eyes snap back to his. "I don't have to be back at school for a few days. Why don't we just..."  
  
 _Just stay here._  
  
 _Just pretend._  
  
 _Just forget._  
  
 _Just be._  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Let’s do that.”

::

The stars are brighter here in California than they ever were in Kansas.


End file.
